Uhgod, you out there?
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House has a bad week. Everyone wants to know what's up--except House.


Wilson blinked, as he entered House's office, to find House curled in his recliner, looking miserable.

"Are you ok?"

"Muscle cramps."

"Your leg?"

House shook his head, closing his eyes.

Wilson sat down in House's office chair, watching his friend.

"You exercise too much?" asked Wilson dryly, as House didn't continue.

"No. I didn't do anything."

Wilson tilted his head.

"Ok."

House opened his eyes.

"You let a symptom go without connecting it to the vicodin?"

Wilson shrugged.

"You don't seem worried."

"I'm tired. I'm going home."

Wilson blinked, but nodded, as House got up, limping heavily to the door, left hand pressing on his side.

"House?" asked Wilson, as House leaned against the door briefly.

"Fine." said House, pushing off and limping down the hall.

The next day, as Wilson walked out of his office to get a cup of coffee, he saw House curled in the recliner again, this time on his side with his back to the door.

He pushed the door open, walking towards his friend, and placed a hand gently on House's shoulder.

"Still getting cramps?"

House nodded, eyes half closed.

"Bad?"

House nodded again.

"You hungry? It's lunchtime, you should eat."

House shrugged non-committally.

"My treat."

"Always your treat." grunted House.

"Yeah, but this time it's voluntary."

House sighed, shaking his head.

"You mind if I bring you something though?"

"Fine."

Wilson pushed the door to House's office open with his foot, carrying two Styrofoam boxes of cafeteria food.

"Hey House. Got you a reuben."

House sat up, apparently feeling better.

"Took you long enough."

"I had to wait for it to cool off." said Wilson, grinning.

House smirked, taking the box Wilson offered him.

When Wilson stopped by House's office on the way out, it was to find his friend curled tightly, arms around his stomach, face pale.

"House?" he asked, gently prying House's hands away.

"Not hungry." was House's weakly ironic response.

Wilson rolled his eyes, gently pressing in an attempt to find out what was wrong.

House pushed his hands away.

"Just gas." he explained, then pushed himself up, limping quickly to the bathroom.

Wilson followed him–he did really look sick–and stood outside the stall.

"God that stinks."

"You're the one who followed me in here."

"Yeah, cus you're sick and you looked like you were going to fall over."

He heard House sigh, then a flush, then caught his friend as House staggered out, palefaced.

"Are you ok?" he asked, as House leaned against him–not something he would ever do under normal circumstances.

"Uh-huh. Tired."

Wilson sighed, helping his exhausted friend back to his office.

House collapsed back onto his recliner, asleep before he hit the cushions.

Wilson watched him for a moment, then squeezed him briefly on the shoulder, and left.

Wilson sighed, as he took a brief detour on his way into his office, to see if House was in yet.

He was there, but in the same clothes as yesterday, in almost exactly the same position he had been in when Wilson had left.

Wilson opened the door, walking in and placing a hand on House's shoulder.

"House, do you want me to drive you home? You probably shouldn't be driving."

House grunted quietly, shrugging Wilson's hand off his shoulder.

"Go away."

"No. Come on, you're exhausted. Sleeping in your recliner can not be good for your leg."

House grunted again, shifting himself further into the soft leather.

Wilson sighed, shook his head, and walked out into the hall.

As he walked towards the clinic, Wilson found himself being confronted by Kuttner and Thirteen, Foreman standing a few feet back as though not quite ready to show his concern.

"House is sick."

"No kidding."

"Is he dying?"

"I have no idea."

"He hasn't told you?"

"He hasn't told himself, I don't think he knows what it is."

"Why isn't he–"

"Because he's ridiculously stubborn and has a very limited amount of concern for his health."

"But he hates not knowing the answer. He can't believe someone wouldn't want to know–"

"Ok, look. How long have you worked for him?"

"Um, about a month and a half."

"In that time, he has electrocuted himself, goaded his own employee into punching him, flooded his system with potentially lethal blood, ignored the febrile reaction afterwards, walked around after being drugged and getting pieces of his internal organs torn out, continued his overuse of a eventually toxic substance, and probably done other stuff that I don't even want to know about. Yeah, he's really concerned about his own health."

They sighed, shook their heads, and left.

Foreman stayed where he was.

Wilson sighed.

"And you know him better than that, so you're not buying it, huh?"

"Right."

"I don't know."

"He's been curious about brain surgery but not about what's giving him severe discomfort. Either it's got a neurological component, he's getting more depressed, or he already knows what it is."

Wilson nodded unhappily.

Foreman raised his eyebrows.

"You kidding me? That's not all the options."

Wilson blinked.

"He's not gonna look because if it's actually serious, people would eventually find out. With the stupid brain cancer thing, everybody accepted that he'd act like he did. Because he would."

Wilson stared at him, thinking it through.

"You're right."

Foreman smirked.

Wilson walked away, looking relieved.

"House? You mind if I drive you home so you can get some actual rest?"

"Go away."

"Something's wrong."

"Go away."

"House, you're in pain all the time."

House snorted.

"That's news."

Wilson sighed.

"House. You're sick."

"Yeah, I kinda figured."

"You... know why?"

"No."

"And you're satisfied with that?"

House shrugged, then frowned, gesturing frantically for Wilson to leave.

Wilson stayed where he was.

"House?" he asked, as the color drained from his friend's face, and House curled in on himself.

Wilson gently placed a hand on House's shoulder, feeling the tremors going through his friend's body.

"House? What is it?" he asked quietly, as beads of sweat began to form on his friend's forehead and upper lip.

House said nothing, and Wilson left his hand on his friend's shoulder.

After about ten minutes, House began to slowly relax, unfolding himself and panting.

"House?" asked Wilson, after House's breathing had returned to normal, and he had sunk down into the soft leather, muscles relaxed, eyes closed.

"Tired..." mumbled House, turning his head a little into the chair cushion.

Wilson sighed, packed House's backpack, laid House's coat over the now sleeping doctor, and headed to his own office to get his briefcase.

When he came back, House was snoring lightly, expression peaceful.

Wilson sighed, shook his head, and sat down in House's office chair to wait. House really did look tired, and he had looked so for several weeks. Wilson could afford to waste a few hours so House could get some extra sleep. He picked up a sheet off a stack of unfilled paperwork, rolled his eyes, and started filling it out.

When House woke again, it wasn't a slow, blinking transition. He sat bolt upright, pushed himself up off the recliner, and fell, tangled in the jacket Wilson had laid over him.

"House?" asked Wilson, a little startled.

House sat up, looking exhausted and miserable and pathetic and embarrassed.

"What's wrong?" asked Wilson, as House's expression changed from pained to disgusted.

"I pooped my pants." he said, wrinkling his nose.

"You mean you couldn't control–"

"No, I mean I had diarrhea and didn't get to the bathroom on time."

Wilson didn't press further, giving House a hand up.

About a week later, Wilson was sitting in his office, trying to stay awake as he read through a description of a new trial in England, when Thirteen barged into his office–through the balcony door, which was usually only used by the ducklings if they needed him fast.

"Dr. Wilson, House is having a seizure."

Wilson dropped the files, hurried past the worried young doctor, hopped the low barrier, and pushed open the door into House's office, catching sight of Kuttner and Foreman trying to keep House from injuring himself or falling off the recliner.

"When did it start?" asked Wilson, staring wide-eyed at his friend, convulsing uncontrollably in his employees' grip.

"About twenty seconds ago." said Foreman, glancing up to meet Wilson's eye,"He wasn't lying?"

Wilson shook his head.

"He's been losing weight and having cramps and stuff like that. Not symptoms of brain cancer."

Foreman nodded, looking back down at House, who had stopped seizing, and was now breathing quickly, eyes half-closed and blank.

Foreman let go, Taub stepping forward to take his place, and grabbed the phone off House's desk.

"Hi, tell Dr. Cameron that her patient, Mr. Laura, needs a MRI of his head, and that we'll meet her there. Thank you."

"Nice of you." said Wilson dryly, "asking for consent and all."

Foreman rolled his eyes.

"Like he'd ever deal with it."

Wilson sighed.

"Tell him I did it." said Thirteen, "he'll just think it's annoying and slip something in my coffee."

Wilson and Foreman looked at her strangely, but Foreman shrugged and left to get a wheelchair.

Kuttner and Taub let go–House was fully asleep now–and Wilson nodded to them, standing next to his friend.

"Uh...god, you out there?"

Foreman raised his eyebrows.

"Hi House." said Wilson into the microphone.

"What happened?"

"Stop moving. You had a seizure." said Foreman.

"You can stop looking, I don't have cancer."

"Again, stop moving. You actually expect us to believe that?"

"Well, if I was lying, you would probably know by now."

"House, shut up. I don't think you have cancer though. Symptoms don't fit." said Wilson.

House was silent for a while.

"Wilson?"

"What, House?"

"...good."

Wilson sighed, listening to the small groans the mike picked up. His leg had to be hurting.

"What the..." said Foreman, frowning at the main screen.

"What?" asked Wilson, a little faster than he had intended to.

"Those are...calcium deposits..."

Foreman blinked for a moment, then grabbed the microphone.

"Your poop stinks."

"...You're ugly."

"It's a symptom, not an insult. Stop eating Wilson's lunch when he makes sandwiches."

Wilson blinked.

House paused.

"Celiac?"

"Yeah."

"There's calcium deposits?"

"Uh-huh."

"Can you get me out of this thing now?"

"No."

Wilson could practically hear House roll his eyes, as Foreman pushed the button to end the scan.

Wilson walked out to his friend as the platform slid out of the scanner.

"You feeling ok?" asked Wilson, as House hesitantly sat up.

"Where's my cane?"

"I think it got left in your office. We were kinda in a hurry."

House snorted, but Wilson could tell he was exhausted and in pain.

"Can I at least have my pants back?"

Wilson snorted, walking back to the control room.

"We figured it would be less embarrassing than your zipper flying off." he said, handing the pants to their owner.

"No, that'd just be funny." said House, gingerly scooting up to the edge of the table so his legs hung off.

"House?" asked Wilson, as House stood, then staggered to the right, bumping into Wilson.

Wilson sighed, as House ended up leaning tiredly against him, eyes half closed.

Wilson glanced back at the control room, but Foreman was gone.

He gently pulled House's right arm over his shoulders, helping his tired friend towards the door and into the wheelchair they had brought him in.

House grunted softly, as Wilson lowered him into the chair, blinking slowly.

Wilson smiled a little, as House fell asleep in the chair.

When House woke again, it was to the familiar sight of the ceiling of Wilson's office.

He turned his head, looking at his friend.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah, House?"

"I feel like crap."

"I know."

"This sucks."

"I know."

"My leg hurts."

"I know."

"This sucks."

Wilson looked up, smiling.

"I know."

House stared at him.

"Why're you happy?"

"Because you have a manageable digestive issue."

"And that makes you happy."

"You had a seizure and it was from a manageable digestive issue."

House paused.

"Not a unmanageable or fatal problem."

Wilson nodded, "That, or I'm thrilled to find out that I might actually get to eat my own lunches."

House snorted.

"You do realize that I have lived on a diet of peanut butter sandwiches and canned soup since I got my own apartment. I'll probably starve to death."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Or learn to cook."

House blinked.

"I don't want to learn how to cook."

"You'd rather starve or be in agony?"

House smirked.

"Actually, the question should be would you rather I starve or be in agony instead of cooking for me."

"Sorry, I may have trouble not helping, but you're the one that'll suffer, not me."

House opened his mouth, still smirking, then stopped, grunting and leaning over his stomach.

Wilson was by his side in an instant, arms around his shoulders, supporting him and holding him up.

"House? Where? What hurts?"

House let go, grinning madly.

"Oh, yeah, you just have trouble. Not are completely unable to not help."

Wilson sighed, letting go.

"You are an ass. Go fake in your own office."

House smirked, apparently pleased at Wilson's reaction.

"Finally. Thought you were going to keep being disproportionately nice to me until I died of a sympathy overdose."

Wilson tilted his head, then sighed.

"Sorry. I know you hate that."

House shrugged, standing up.

Then he groaned and collapsed back onto the couch, clutching his stomach for real.

Wilson's arm rested across his chest, keeping him from falling onto the floor.

"You are screwed."

House laughed quietly, as Wilson leaned him against the back of the couch.

"Yeah... I'm screw... screwed."


End file.
